


On Such A Breathless Night As This

by spockandawe



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels, Fallen Angels, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Power Dynamics, Sensual Play, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:44:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: The trouble is that between you and Crowley, neither of you— Neither of yourealizethere’s a problem until you’re at a stage where the discovery of a problem is going to be a terrible disappointment.Oh, there were other problems, to be sure. But those had been sorted, for a very generous definition of the word, where ‘sorted’ included ‘no longer being official enemies on account of having formally severed ties with Heaven and Hell’, and ‘hopefully having scared away the furious united hosts of Heaven and Hell, who were very interested in taking some measure of revenge on the both of you.’ And the postponed end of the world was a great help, of course.But none of that was a problem on such a— such a personal level as this.





	On Such A Breathless Night As This

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/186322527721/on-such-a-breathless-night-as-this-spockandawe)/[Twitter](https://twitter.com/spockandawe/status/1151008745201295361)

The trouble is that between you and Crowley, neither of you— Neither of you  _ realize  _ there’s a problem until you’re at a stage where the discovery of a problem is going to be a terrible disappointment. 

Oh, there were other problems, to be sure. But those had been sorted, for a very generous definition of the word, where ‘sorted’ included ‘no longer being official enemies on account of having formally severed ties with Heaven and Hell’, and ‘hopefully having scared away the furious united hosts of Heaven and Hell, who were very interested in taking some measure of revenge on the both of you.’ And the postponed end of the world was a great help, of course.

But none of that was a problem on such a— such a  _ personal  _ level as this.

Nothing occurs to you until you’re at Crowley’s flat, sitting together and reminiscing about the bad old days. And you’ve been at it for a while, the day is getting on, so naturally you just so happen to check the time, which  _ certainly  _ isn’t just a flimsy excuse to take your new watch from your jacket. Definitely not an excuse to hold it up so that Crowley might see— __

And he does see, almost right away. Which is a relief, otherwise you would have had to resort to accidentally dropping your watch and asking him to retrieve it for you. And that would have necessitated undoing the chain without him noticing, and this  _ is  _ a brand new watch, and really, it’s all for the best that things worked out this easily.

You’re looking at the time, but you’re hearing the way Crowley loses track of what he’s saying between one word and the next. At the edge of your vision, you can see him leaning in, looking more closely at your watch. And then you can stop pretending not to watch him, because he reaches out to take your hand and turn it more fully towards him.

The silence stretches out past a simple pause in the conversation. You could speak up, you suppose. But you think you’ll wait to see what Crowley has to say.

Finally he says, “A snake?”

You are smiling to yourself, which you think you’ve earned at this point. “I thought it was appropriate. Don’t you?”

He’s still holding your hand in place, his eyes fixed on the watch. “Appropriate.”

“Well, yes.” You’re feeling immensely pleased with yourself, and can’t resist pushing a little harder. “The wings didn’t seem that fitting anymore, all things considered. This felt much more suitable.”

_ “Suitable.”  _ Crowley laughs once, breathlessly. His other hand comes up to hold yours in place, and he still hasn’t looked away from the watch. There’s silence again, but you see him swallow hard. “Angel—” 

You raise your free hand, so that he’s cradling the hand with the watch, but you’re holding his hand there against yours. You aren’t sure if he’s really intending to lean in towards you, but it’s happening, and you’re happy to do the same. And really, you are indescribably pleased with yourself. That couldn’t have gone any better, and you feel like you’re soaring. You just watch your hands together with his, savoring the moment. As quiet as you both are, the contact is electric, and you can practically feel your hands tingling where they touch Crowley’s. 

Though— The moment stretches on, and— You can  _ practically  _ feel your hands tingling. That’s right, isn’t it? This is the sort of thing you’ve read about in novels before. A cliché, perhaps, but so many clichés have some sort of root in truth. But this keeps… happening. And the sensation is only getting more intense with time. You’re starting to wonder about the accuracy of that ‘practically’, but if that’s not correct, you have a sinking feeling that there’s an ominous  _ ‘literally’ _ looming over the whole scene.

In fact, it’s beginning to feel almost unpleasant to leave your hands where they are, but you’re very aware that you don’t want to pull away from Crowley just now, and that’s not only for your own sake, but also— 

Crowley finally drops the watch and jerks his hands away from yours, shaking them as if he’d burned his fingers. By now, you’ve formed a terrible sneaking suspicion as to what the problem is. The trouble is, you don’t want to be right. You don’t want to even  _ consider  _ that you might be right. Perhaps you are wrong, perhaps you’re missing something obvious and if you only say it out loud, Crowley can immediately point out the holes in your argument. Perhaps.

You force yourself to say it. “Divine flesh,” you begin, “and  _ infernal  _ flesh—” 

_ “Fuck,” _ says Crowley.

You close your eyes and fight a very serious urge to swear. “Quite,” you agree.

There’s silence for a few seconds, and then Crowley speaks up again. “That can’t be right,” he says. “It can’t. We’d have noticed by now. We’ve touched before, plenty of times. It’s been six thousand years, we  _ must  _ have done.”

You try your hardest to remember. Of course you must have  _ touched  _ before. Yes, you don’t even need to go back that far, there are plenty of times, a handshake here, passing a bottle of wine back and forth there, more times than you can count just in recent years. Even back as far as the very beginning, you distinctly recall accidentally brushing wings when you were up on the Garden’s walls. Why  _ now?  _

When you open your eyes, Crowley is turned towards you on the sofa, watching you and frowning. He says, “Couldn’t be a punishment, could it? Doesn’t seem much like  _ Her  _ to pull something like this.”

“No, no, I’m sure not, I couldn’t imagine—” You can’t imagine what  _ would  _ cause this all of a sudden, though. That is rather the problem.

You reach out towards Crowley again, slowly. You brush the back of his hand with one finger, just a moment of contact. And that feels normal. Physically human, unmistakably of divine stock, and just as unmistakably Fallen. Just like always. You focus on your hand, trying to detect any hint of what you felt before, but there’s nothing. You’re familiar with how it feels to inhabit this body, and there isn’t anything out of place.

Crowley is studying his hand too, and finally shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You frown. “But there  _ was _ something before.”

“Oh,  _ definitely.  _ I wasn’t sure how much longer I could’ve kept on.”

You’d like to press him on what he would have done before you were interrupted. The moment is gone. Unsalvageable. So you’d very much like to know what  _ would  _ have happened. But you’re not sure you can bring that up right now. It’s— No, you don’t want to think about how terribly unfair this whole situation is until you’re absolutely sure you have no other options.

Instead, you reach out again. This time you place your hand on top of Crowley’s, and leave it there. You lean in fractionally, watching it. Crowley is watching just as intently as you are, and he’s  _ so close,  _ and you wish you hadn’t had the earlier moment snatched away from you, that it was still the same cozy, warm satisfaction, with all the time in the world to linger over the pleasure of it.

You can feel a prickling in your fingers. You look sharply up at Crowley.

He says, “You feel it too?”

All you do is nod. You wait, hoping it’s nothing, that it fades, that this is just in your head. Heads. 

The sensation does not fade. Now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it slowly mounting, becoming more intense with each passing second. It isn’t pain, not exactly, but it’s difficult to sit and endure it, especially when it keeps building without any sign of stopping.

You finally pull your hand away. “You’ve never… experienced this before?”

“What, with all the other angels I’ve been holding hands with?”

“No, just— In general. With anyone. Humans?”

“Never. You?”

You just shake your head. You’re still looking at Crowley’s hand. The bitterness you’re feeling right now is probably unbecoming of an angel, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. You reach out and place your hand on his again. Now that you’re looking for it, you can feel the sensation starting to slowly build in your palm and along your fingers. 

The silence is suffocating, and leaves you too much space to think. You force yourself to break it. “If this is how things are, shouldn’t we have  _ known? _ Shouldn’t  _ someone  _ have known?”

The feeling in your hand is beginning to approach pain again, so it doesn’t surprise you when Crowley pulls his hand from under yours. Quietly, he says, “I don’t suppose there have been many angels and demons on friendly terms with each other.”

_ It isn’t fair, _ you bite off. “I don’t know about that. Who knows what Michael might have gotten up to while visiting Downstairs.” 

Crowley laughs, but it sounds hollow. He moves his hand back to you, so it’s his hand on yours now. He says, “Maybe it helps that— You know. This. Us.  _ Everything. _ Perhaps if we’d tried this way back in the day, we’d have both gone up in flames.”

The idea is amusing and upsetting at the same time. It might be easier to laugh if you hadn’t only just seen the way Heaven and Hell were so very willing to collaborate to kill him. You try to smile, but you don’t think it’s all that convincing. “I haven’t taken a proper look at my wings in some time. Maybe they’re a little more grey than they used to be.”

“I should hope not. It’s not really the kind of stain that washes out.”

Silence again. You really ought to say something. But your attention is occupied by Crowley’s hand resting on top of yours, so close to what it was before, with the watch. You’re tempted to ask him to go back to that moment with you. But you know neither of you will be able to give something as frivolous as a new watch your full attention with something like  _ this _ looming over the scene.

The prickling is mounting in the back of your hand, enough that you have to focus on ignoring it. It’s the sort of feeling where your first impulse is still to describe it as pain, even though you  _ know _ that’s not right. But eventually you reach the point where you can’t ignore it any longer and have to pull your hand away, so that you’re left looking at your hand next to Crowley’s, neither of you touching the other.

Finally, you burst out, “Look, it doesn’t— It doesn’t exactly  _ hurt,  _ does it.”

Crowley laughs once, surprised. When you look at him, there’s a wry twist to his mouth, something close to actual amusement. He’s watching  _ you  _ very closely, and you have to fight the urge to turn away.

You press, “It doesn’t hurt, though. This isn’t  _ hurting.” _

“Suppose not.” Crowley shrugs one shoulder. “Does it matter? Either way, we can’t keep it up.”

You hesitate, trying to think of some argument. There must be something you’re missing. There  _ must _ be. But you’re at a loss. And you think Crowley can see that, watching you. The corner of his mouth quirks up, but it isn’t a happy expression, and he finally looks away from your face, down to your hand.

The silence is terrible. You  _ have  _ to say something. But you don’t know what. You try, “I believe we were interrupted. You’d been looking at my new watch?”

Crowley shakes himself and sits up a little straighter. “Watch—? Right. Yeah, watch.”

He seems at a loss. You press, “Had you finished…?”

It’s selfish, perhaps. Certainly frivolous. But right now, you’d rather like to have something selfish and frivolous to distract you. And Crowley says,  _ “Right.  _ Watch. No, no, I wasn’t done with it, I was still looking.”

There. You smile a little to yourself. You retrieve the watch and hand it to him, and you’re so, so aware of the little brush of fingers that exchange involves. There’s no prickling, not for a touch so fleeting, and you fight the impulse to simply place your hand in Crowley’s until you’re forced to withdraw it.

Instead, you try to focus on watching Crowley, like you’d been doing before— Like before. He’s turning your watch over in his hands, but you don’t look away from his face. You’re glad you’ve known him for so long, that you can read him this well, even with his glasses in the way. His eyebrows draw together fractionally, and his lips twitch. There’s a tension in his jaw and his shoulders, and you see him swallow hard as he looks over your watch. Best of all, his attention is so completely on the watch that you’re free to study him as openly as you like.

“Appropriate,” he finally says.

You blink, lost for a moment. “Pardon?”

“You said this was  _ appropriate.” _

“Yes, I believe I did.”

Crowley is silent for a moment. Then, “Care to elaborate?”

Ah. You feel a sudden jolt in your chest, a feeling almost like being cornered. Alarm and a rush of adrenaline, but in a pleasant, invigorating way. You take your time, enjoying the sensation, before you answer him.

“Heaven and I aren’t precisely on the best of terms right now, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mm.”

“And wings, well. Those could be a reference to myself, I suppose. But it was really that original allegiance that I’d had in mind when I commissioned it. Recontextualizing it now… I suppose I  _ could,  _ but I’d always remember why I bought it in the first place. You know.”

You pause there. Crowley is still turning your watch over and over in his hands. This still isn’t the original moment, not what you had before, but the pleasure of that exchange is returning as you speak. 

It takes Crowley a few seconds to realize you haven’t quite answered his question, and he glances sideways at you. “And?”

Now, you let yourself smile. “If I’m not on Heaven’s side anymore— Whose side am I on?”

You can see the precise instant it hits him. You can hear a sharp little intake of breath, but he freezes where he is, his lips just the slightest bit parted. He stares at you, helplessly, his face open, and his expression something close to pain.

It only lasts a moment before Crowley regains control of himself, but it was everything you hoped it might be. You savor the warm glow of satisfaction, which you think is entirely justified. And you keep watching him as he laughs once, breathlessly, then ducks his head and presses the knuckles of one hand to his forehead.

_ “Angel,” _ he says. 

“Yes?”

Crowley only shakes his head. He’s still holding the watch in his other hand. Tightly, so tightly that you can see his knuckles going white. And— Your enjoyment fades just a little with the memory of what put a stop to the proceedings before. But perhaps, if you do this the right way— You reach out to him and briefly take that hand in yours. Only for a moment, no more than a few seconds. You brush your thumb across the back of his knuckles and you see— _ feel _ —him shudder. And then you reluctantly pull away, though you make it more of a parting caress than a simple withdrawal. 

He doesn’t seem up to speech quite yet, so you lean back and say, “You  _ were  _ the one who told me that you and I are— well. It took me some time to catch on, but it seemed like it would be nice to make things a little more official, don’t you think?”

You’re expecting Crowley to laugh. Instead, he makes a pained, muffled noise that makes your stomach twist uneasily, but before you can untangle your reaction, he drops the watch and grabs for your arm instead, holding you tight enough to bruise. You pause where you are as he visibly collects himself and straightens. You’re close enough to see that behind the glasses, his eyes are tightly closed.

“Look,” he says. “Can we…” 

You wait, but he doesn’t go on. “Yes?”

“I know that, that— What you said. Infernal flesh, divine flesh, and all that.” Crowley’s eyes are open now, his expression ever so slightly desperate. “But—” 

His voice trails off again. And you think you’re ready to take pity on him. You don’t know what he wants to ask, or  _ if  _ he knows what he wants to ask, but you really don’t mind charting a course yourself. You try, “Do you… kiss?”

That startles a laugh out of Crowley, and then a grin slowly spreads across his face. Seeing that, some of the tension in your chest begins to unwind. He laughs again, still smiling. “Do I kiss? I should say so. Besides, shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

You smile back at him, trying not to laugh yourself. “My dear boy. You have  _ no  _ idea.”

He makes it about halfway through asking what you mean by  _ that  _ before you reach up to touch his face and he loses track of the sentence. His voice trails off right around when you brush your fingertips across his cheek, and ever so delicately, guide him into a kiss.

Crowley shivers all over when your mouth meets his. He still hasn’t let go of your arm, and as distracted as you are, you still have attention to spare to notice that there’s still no prickling where he’s holding you, no need to pull away from him. You have to assume the fabric is enough of a barrier to stop the reaction. But that’s something to think about later, because you really have much more pressing things demanding your attention right now.

There’s urgency to the kiss from the beginning, and it only mounts as the kiss continues.  The fingers of your free hand are under the edge of Crowley’s jacket, tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His arm is trapped between your chests, and you want to move it so you can press right against him, so close you can feel the rhythm of his heart and the way he breathes— or doesn’t breathe, as the case may be. But to do that, you’d have to pull back, and presumably, you’d have to let go of his shirt before you could do that, and that’s no good at all.

Besides. You can already feel the tingling sensation building in your lips. You know, you  _ know _ your time is limited, and you are absolutely determined to make the fullest use of however long you have left.

It isn’t long enough. Even when it’s too much to continue, when your lips feel like they’re burning, once you draw away, it takes all your strength not to immediately go back to him. You force yourself to turn away enough to sit back down properly. And when you get a good look at Crowley and see the flush on his cheeks and the way he’s  _ breathing—  _ It nearly shatters your determination, and you have to shut your eyes and focus on steadying your own breathing to pull yourself back under control.

“Fabric,” you manage, because you’re desperate for anything to distract you right now.

“Right, fabric,” says Crowley. “Yeah. Fabric. What?”

You lift the arm he’s still holding. “See? With the sleeve. No problems for me.” You open your eyes to get a look at the grip he has on you. You rather think you’ll end up with a nice ring of bruises, provided you don’t accidentally miracle them away before you can get a proper look. “With how tight you’re holding on, I assume things are fine on your end?”

From the corner of your eye, you see him flush even further, and he immediately lets you go, which— wasn’t quite what you were looking for. 

He starts, “Sorry, I didn’t—” 

“No need at all.” You turn to face him a little more fully, and capture his arms instead. Your jacket is made of rather thicker cloth than his, but still, you can’t feel any hint of the tingling in your fingers and palms. “Still fine?”

“Still fine,” he says, and cautiously turns his arms just enough that his hands are resting against your sleeves.

Both of you lose the thread of conversation for a minute. You’re focusing so hard on what you can feel in your hands and arms that you can’t think about conversation, and you’re fairly sure Crowley is in a similar position. But even though you’re half-certain that at any minute you’ll be proven wrong and the delayed reaction will kick in and this will be taken from you too— Well. That reaction never materializes. And you allow yourself to relax.

In fact, you shift just far enough so that your leg brushes against Crowley’s. It could have been an incidental touch, but as soon as you do it, you feel him mirroring you. So you don’t bother pretending it’s incidental, you just rest your leg against his and enjoy the pressure of his knee against your thigh.

“This seems promising,” you finally venture. It still feels dangerous to claim any sort of victory, as though the moment you commit, it will be yanked out from under you. But you need  _ something. _

“It’s… good,” says Crowley. Who does not seem terribly sure that this is, in fact, good.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, s’fine.”

You try to let go of his arms, which doesn’t seem to be the result he was after, because the moment you release him he shifts uneasily and grabs your sleeves a little more tightly to hold you in place. You wait, but Crowley doesn’t make any move to let you go. “My dear, if you don’t  _ want  _ this—” 

“What?  _ No,  _ that isn’t— It’s not—” He mutters something vaguely blasphemous and tries again. “So, what now, we just leave it at this forever? Touching, sure, you can  _ touch  _ as long as it’s done through several layers of clothing, but  _ holding hands,  _ that’s right out?”

You can hear the frustration in his voice. And you do understand what he means. And everything he isn’t saying. You agree completely, you really do. But you are also  _ bound and determined _ to find  _ some  _ way to extract what you want from this situation, even if you have to fight for every tiny piece of it.

So you say, “Not at all,” and gently shake one arm free of Crowley’s grip. You don’t go far, just let that hand trail up the sleeve of his jacket, over his shoulder. The contact is light, and you aren’t sure how much he’s really feeling through the fabric. When you keep going, past his collar, to the bare skin of his neck— then he shivers. Your fingertips trace up over his jaw, over his cheek. You feel him twitch, as though he wanted to lean into your hand and held himself back. So you cup his face in your hand yourself, leaving your hand there until your palm starts to prickle, and then you move away again, down his neck, out onto the fabric of his jacket.

You have to swallow once before you can properly speak. “We can touch. We just need to be… strategic.”

Crowley manages a breathy laugh.  _ “Strategic.” _

You’re smiling again. “When you begin working on a strategy, I’m sure you can call it whatever you like. Anyways, let me just—”

You run your fingers up his neck again, the same path you traced before. This time when you cup his cheek, your hand begins tingling from the moment you make contact, not the gradual build you’re getting accustomed to. You frown a little. “That’s odd.”

“A bit strong for you too?” Crowley asks.

“Indeed.” You’re still frowning at your hand, concentrating. Shifting the pressure from palm to fingertips doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. This would be so much easier if you had longer periods of time to examine the  _ process.  _ But the sensation is getting to be a bit much, and you pull your hand away. 

Then— just to see, you put your hand right back against his cheek. This time the feeling is on the edge of pain from the moment you touch him. You don’t bother to leave your hand there, just pull back. You pause for a few seconds, thinking about what to try next— But really, this isn’t the time to be running tests, you can figure out the mechanics of this later. You sigh, shake your head, and brush the back of your fingers across Crowley’s cheek by way of apology.

Two things happen. Or rather, one thing happens and one thing  _ fails  _ to happen. First, Crowley twitches away from your hand with a little hiss. You immediately jerk back, pulling your hand away from him, but also, second, you realize that  _ your  _ hand feels perfectly fine. No prickling at all, simply— like the first moment of touch, when you could imagine that this was as simple and straightforward as touching a human.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell him.

“No, s‘all fine, just took me by surprise. You were right, it doesn’t exactly  _ hurt,  _ it’s just— a lot.”

“Quite,” you absently agree.

You don’t reach for his face again— Even if it isn’t exactly  _ pain,  _ you… don’t like seeing him flinch away from you, not when you aren’t completely sure of what you’re  _ doing  _ to him. But you can’t delay long if you want to test this theory. You reach for his hand instead. He doesn’t react when you touch him, but sensation that hits  _ you  _ is strong enough that you jerk your hand away and shake it, trying to fight the feeling that you’ve just burned yourself.

“What’s wrong?” Crowly asked.

“Nothing,” you tell him. “Just like you said, it’s… a lot.”

He’s watching you closely. And you weren’t planning to make any sweeping declarations until you were sure of what you were saying, but he’s clever enough to put the pieces together on his own.

“It’s cumulative,” he breathes. “Cumulative, _localized—_ So if you’re touching a place on me and switch hands, you’re just fine, but I’m still feeling like you’ve had me going for a while.”

“And when I’m using the same hand on different places, it feels… well, as though I’ve been touching you for that total period of time.”

Both of you are quiet for a moment, trying to think this through. You reach out to touch the back of Crowley’s hand again, and the sensation isn’t as strong at first touch as it was before, but it isn’t faded to the degree you expected either. You make a frustrated noise. “I can’t tell how long this lasts for me— never mind  _ you.” _

He turns his hand under yours, so that your fingertips are against his palm. Logically, you know that it will be much less intense for him right now than it is for you, but you still don’t know what the degree of difference is, or his threshold for what’s too much, and as you pull your hand away you have to fight off another rush of bitterness that something so simple should have been made so  _ difficult. _

Softly, Crowley says, “I wouldn’t really mind if you kept, you know. Pushing—” 

_ “No,”  _ you say, more sharply than you intended. You try to soften it with a smile. “Not without knowing exactly what I’m doing to you.”

He makes a face, but you ignore the hint. You look down at your hands, resting apart again, while it would be  _ so easy  _ to touch him if only— After a moment, you add, “Causing suffering isn’t really in the job description, after all.”

At that, Crowley gives you a quick look, then he reaches between you, fumbling for something— He finds your watch underneath your leg, and he picks it up, pressing it back into your hands. “You don’t have a job description, not anymore.” His hands are around yours, curling your fingers against the metal of the watch.  _ “Our side. _ Remember?”

“The, the point is the  _ suffering—”  _

He hasn’t released your hands, and you can feel your fingers beginning to prickle. But he’s watching you so intently that your voice trails off and you forget how that sentence was going to end. He says, “Not really suffering, is it?”

“You felt it just the same as I did, don’t bother telling me otherwise.”

“Course I did. But you said it yourself, didn’t you. It’s not really… pain.”

Your chest feels too tight. You want to accuse Crowley of being unkind. You want so badly to let yourself be reassured even though you  _ know  _ things aren’t that simple. “We can barely touch.” Saying it out loud, so plainly, hits you like a blow, and you have to take a deep breath before you can go on. “At this point, splitting hairs on definitions won’t do us any good.”

And as gently as you can, you withdraw your hands from Crowley’s.

“Maybe it will,” says Crowley. There’s the faintest note of desperation in his voice. “You don’t know. It’s— intense, that’s all. I’m getting used to it.”

You have to shut your eyes before you can speak. “We hardly know what we’re doing. I won’t  _ hurt _ you, Crowley.”

“Fine. I won’t _ let _ you.”

When you force yourself to look at him, he’s watching you so closely that it’s almost too much to bear. He reaches out and rests a hand on your arm, safely above the edge of your sleeve. 

More quietly, he adds, “Promise. Whatever it takes.”

You’re weak. “You promise me? You  _ promise?” _

You might be asking Crowley, but you aren’t actually managing to wait for an answer before leaning back into him. He’s opening his arms to you as he says, “Anything— Tell me what you need, I’ll do it for you.”

It’s difficult to think, especially when you’d just been putting all of your energy into making your peace with disappointment, and when Crowley is  _ right here,  _ and his arms are around you, but you close your eyes and try to concentrate. “Glasses,” you say. “They need to come off.”

Crowley doesn’t hesitate. You can feel him reach up to do it, and already you feel less worried about the situation.

After a few seconds of silence, he says, “Anything else?”

Nothing that you can put into words at the moment. Only— “I need you to  _ talk to me. _ ” You push away from him a little so you can sit up straight and look him right in the eyes. He looks mildly alarmed at how forceful that was. “If something— goes wrong. If something hurts, if I do something you don’t like. You  _ will  _ tell me.”

You meant to phrase that as a question, but it didn’t really come out that way. Crowley’s eyes are a bit wide and surprised, but he doesn’t actually look displeased, and you think removing the glasses from the situation was the right decision. He clears his throat once and says, “I should be able to do that, yeah.”

“Good.” You relax a little further. And, while you’re at it, also relax into Crowley. It’s such a small thing, really. You’re only sitting with him, being held. But right now, it feels like a hard-won victory. His knee is digging uncomfortably into your leg and your back is beginning to complain, and it’s utterly perfect.

After a long, quiet moment, his fingers begin to drift across your back, moving in lazy circles. It reminds you that there’s more you could be doing right now. You intend to be careful about skin-to-skin contact, but you can still slip one hand inside Crowley’s jacket and place it on his waist.

His breath catches. Then he says. “So, what next? Kissing— kissing is always nice. Are you going to laugh at me again if I ask what other sorts of things you’ve gotten up to?”

You can’t help smiling. “I might.”

It really is nice being pressed so close to him you can feel every little shift of his body against yours. You’re quite enjoying yourself. He plucks at the back of your jacket and says, “Can I get this out of the way?”

At that, you do have to stop and think. Savoring the moment is all well and good, but you really need to think about what  _ else _ is going to happen. So after a moment of consideration, you tell him, “No. That stays where it is.”

He sighs, but doesn’t argue. Which is good. You still don’t quite trust him to be as careful as he ought to be with— with whatever happens when you touch. And you want this to work, you very badly want this to work, but you aren’t going to let this move forward without at least a few precautions.

Though you do tug at the hem of his jacket and say, “I think  _ this _ can go.”

You have to separate a little for Crowley to shrug out of the jacket and toss it aside. He turns back to you after that’s done and pauses, just looking at you uncertainly. You reach out to him, up to his face, cupping his face again. This time he openly tilts his head into your hand, his eyes shut, his eyebrows drawn together. You brush your thumb across his cheek, watching him. And you keep half your attention on the sensation in your hand where it touches him, holding contact until the tingling starts to become uncomfortable. Then you move, trailing your fingers down his neck, over his collar, onto his chest. 

There you press your palm to the fabric, feeling the faint flutter of his heart. You study his face, even as his eyes open and he sees the way you’re watching him. 

He’s frozen there for a moment, then swallows. He reaches up to touch the back of your hand where it rests against his shirt and says, “This— As far as you want to take this, it’s fine by me.”

“This isn’t going to be sex,” you tell him. He tries to hide his disappointment, but you can still see it in his face. You take his hand in yours and press it for a moment before releasing him. “I’m not going to risk it. There’s so much about this we’re still working out; I’m not going to involve any delicate anatomy before we have more of this sorted.”

“So—” 

“So  _ maybe.  _ Eventually.”

He smiles at that, and starts to reach out to you before he hesitates. “You sure about your jacket? I’ve got to do  _ something _ for you, don’t I?”

“Do you?”

“Well. I’d  _ like _ to do something for you.”

“Mm.” You think about it as you place your hand back against his shirt and let it wander, over his chest, down to his stomach. You run your fingers over the buttons and feel them catch in the gaps between them, still not touching skin, but brushing against his undershirt as you move back up towards his neck. The trouble is that you don’t trust him to be as careful with himself as you’d like him to be. “And if I’d just like to do something for  _ you,  _ is that a problem?”

He’s watching your hand, and you can see the flush on his cheeks. Softly, he says, “You really think I’m going to tell you no right now?”

Ah. You can’t help smiling now, and you lean into him more fully. Your hand is pressed flat to the center of his chest, but your forehead rests on Crowley’s shoulder. You aren’t— hiding. Precisely. But this is all a bit  _ much _ when you’d just been putting so much effort into coming to terms with disappointment. Crowley leans his head into yours, his cheek against your hair, and you can feel him sigh. You stay that way for a long moment. 

What shakes you loose from that moment— It isn’t a conscious decision, but you can still feel the buttons of his shirt under your hand, and without planning anything in particular, you begin to toy with one. Then it slips loose, and his shirt parts open under your hand. 

And you see, the gap in his shirt isn’t quite large enough to slip your hand inside, so you’re forced to undo another button. And then it’s just impossible to stop there.

At some point, you have to push back so you can get both hands in between you to tug his shirt out from his trousers and undo the lowest buttons. Crowley can’t help you with that, because he’s occupied with his tie. His hands are unsteady as he tries to undo it, and he gives up and drags it over his head just as you finally manage to unfasten the last of his buttons, and spread his shirt wide open, your hands smoothing out over the sides of his undershirt.

You’ve largely managed to avoid skin to skin contact so far, but you know that can’t last. And you don’t especially  _ want  _ it to last. You still have to take a slow breath to steady your nerves, then push up the edge of Crowley’s undershirt just far enough to slip your hands underneath and let them rest on the bare skin of his waist.

Crowley freezes, except for the way his stomach rises and falls as he breathes. You aren’t doing much better, truth be told, but you move your thumbs in little circles against him, trying to focus on the feeling in your hands. There, after a few seconds, you feel the tingling start up in your hands. You let it build for a moment, then slide your hands up Crowley’s waist, slowly, rucking up his undershirt as you go. He’s still frozen, breathing quick and shallow, his eyes half-closed as he watches you.

Your hands are beginning to prickle uncomfortably, but you’ve been moving, so Crowley won’t be in the same state. You take one hand away and leave the other there on his ribs, waiting as long as you can until your palm feels like it’s burning. Then you move, but only to turn your hand over so the back of your fingers rest against the same place. Crowley’s breath snags, and you let your hand curl, slowly, moving from the back of your fingers along the back of your hand, never letting the sensation build too far in your own hand.

Now, you’re watching his face closely, to mark his reactions. He meets your eyes, not saying anything. His breathing speeds slightly as your hand shifts against his side, and you think he understands what you’re doing. You keep your hand moving, from the back of your hand to the back of your fingers again, staying in contact with the same place on his ribs. And then you turn your hand over and press your palm to his skin.

Crowley makes a breathless noise, his side jumping under your hand, but he’s grinning at you as well. It’s difficult to mark time when you’re so— so distracted. So you don’t know how difficult the sensation is for him to bear at this point, but you remain completely unwilling to push too far and hurt him, so you draw your hand away.

As your hand leaves him, Crowley shudders, and his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He grabs for your arm reflexively, though he only holds you for a moment before his grip relaxes, and his hand slides up your arm to cup your elbow and keep you close to him.

You’re a little distracted yourself at this point, watching the expressions he makes, but also caught by the  _ sight  _ of him, the way his shirt is parted so wide you can see his shoulders past the fabric of his undershirt, or the way that undershirt is pushed far enough upward that you can still see the skin of his stomach, see how it moves with each breath.

And Crowley’s hand— It isn’t just holding you where you are, it exerts a gentle pressure forward that you can’t resist yielding to. You bend in to him, bracing a hand against his chest, and kiss him again. His lips part easily under yours and you kiss him deeply, savoring the closeness and sensation. Crowley’s other hand comes up around your waist and rests against your back, his fingers curling into the fabric. You’re aware this moment can’t last as long as you’d like it to and pull back after a few seconds, kissing him lightly at the corner of his mouth, on his jaw. Your lips are beginning to tingle and it’s so  _ frustrating,  _ but you’re beginning to recognize that as a prompting to do something  _ new  _ rather than a warning to stop.

So you let your hand slide up Crowley’s chest, so that your fingers drift past the fabric of his undershirt and rest against at the base of his neck. You leave them there as you steal your last few kisses and then regretfully pull away. You don’t go far, just a few inches, so you can properly see his face.

You say, “Well?”

He blinks twice and hesitates before he replies. “Yeah?”

“You said you’d talk to me.”

_ “Right.  _ Talk. That thing.” He shakes his head and says, “Good. It’s— Good. Wouldn’t mind more kissing, if you’d like.” That last is said in a faintly hopeful tone.

You shake your head. If you begin again now, you’ll only have to stop straightaway, and that will just be a disappointment. You can feel your fingertips starting to tingle where they’re resting against his skin. So you tap them against his neck and prompt, “And this?”

He shivers a little. “Starting to get a little— You know. Feels nice.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

Crowley flushes, shuts his eyes, and shakes his head. “Just a bit intense”

Your fingers are starting to get a bit uncomfortable by now, so you turn your hand over, letting your knuckles rest just over the edge of his undershirt, the back of your fingers laying against his neck.

His breath catches, but he doesn’t say anything.

You prompt, “And now?”

He laughs soundlessly. “More intense than before.” You shift, preparing to move away, and his eyes fly open and his fingers dig into your back. “Don’t stop.”

Now, you aren’t entirely prepared to trust his judgment on when stopping would be for the best, but you stay where you are, watching him. You don’t pull away, but you brush your hand over and over that spot, left to right, lifting away for a moment, and beginning again. He shifts against you every time your knuckles touch him. His breathing gets more ragged, and you can see his flush spreading down his neck and out over his shoulders.

Finally, he gasps,  _ “Angel—” _

Before he can say anymore, you pull your hand away. And before you can help yourself, you bend in to kiss him, muffling whatever else he was trying to say. You kiss him as he takes uneven breaths, one quick kiss after another. And you try to tell him, “That was good, that was  _ exactly  _ right— Only tell me when—” 

He’s holding tightly to you, and your hands are tangled in the front of his undershirt, and you would  _ very  _ much like to be even closer than this. By the time you have to break off the kisses, you’re trying to push his shirt off the rest of your way, and you’re doing a terribly inefficient job of it and keep getting distracted running your hands along the bits of your arms you can reach, but at least Crowley isn’t doing much better than you.

You lean your forehead against his, both of you breathing hard, and it would be so easy to kiss him again— Actually, you’re right on the point of climbing onto his lap when you remember, “Bed.”

It takes him a moment. “Bed what?”

“Did you have one? I can never remember.”

“‘Course I do, it’s a standard part of human—” 

“Let’s.” You smile at him, very satisfied for a few seconds with the quality of your communication skills, before you take in his blank look of incomprehension. “Let’s  _ go  _ to bed.  _ Your _ bed.”

“Oh.  _ Oh.” _

It’s much more difficult than it ought to be to get yourselves upright, and you don’t have any real excuse for that except for the way you really don’t want to let go of Crowley, and he seems equally reluctant to let go of you. You have to untangle yourselves and struggle upright while also pressed as closely as possible, with Crowley distracting you by bending in to steal a kiss, and you distracting yourself taking in his expression and the way it shifts if you move your hand to cradle the side of his face, or— 

You make it upright eventually, is the material point. You’re both laughing helplessly and leaning into each other and dragging on each other’s clothes for support, but you’re standing and that’s what counts. You’re giddy, and can’t bring yourself to care.

Eventually, you master yourself enough that you can begin making your way to the bedroom. Or,  _ you  _ master yourself, Crowley is still too distracted to be much help. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed. Not when he’s watching you with that expression, where he keeps trying to smile and trying  _ not  _ to smile at the same time, and it leaves his whole face so open and expressive that it takes your breath away. You don’t make it far before you have to stop and turn to Crowley to take his face in both hands and just stand there, looking at him.

There’s a flicker of something almost like pain on his face, and he shuts his eyes, but he’s still fighting not to smile and his hands come to rest easily on your waist. You watch him like that until your fingers begin to prickle and you release him. 

“Bedroom,” you say.

He does manage to take the lead, which is fortunate, because you’d been headed in the wrong direction. A part of you wants to take the time to pause and look around the room, see what it says about Crowley and what it says about how you have him  _ now,  _ but you can’t do it. It’s so difficult to look away from him for more than a moment or two, and the way he watches you draws you in closer with every passing second.

You have to shut your eyes for a moment, to figure out what you want and how you should go about getting it. Well, the first step is easy. “Shirt off,” you tell him. “Undershirt too.”

He lifts a hand, getting ready to snap, and you manage to catch up right before the miracle.

_ “Wait,” _ you say. “You— Yourself. Take them off yourself.”

The corner of his mouth turns up, and he inclines his head to you. You watch as he removes one shirt and then the other, enjoying the view. Nudity doesn’t  _ mean  _ anything, not at its core, not to beings like you. But there are so many layers of meaning to the gesture. You aren’t in any fit state to take them all in and untangle them in any thorough way, but you are still more than happy to enjoy the moment as it is.

Crowley says, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to return the favor?”

“Afraid not,” you tell him. Though the longer this lasts, the more you convince yourself that this  _ can _ last, you find yourself increasingly tempted. Maybe when you’re collected enough to really savor everything the gesture means, what it means to you and to him both. “Perhaps another time.”

And as Crowley turns to toss the clothing to the side, you catch a glimpse of his back, and a thought occurs— “My dear. Might I persuade you to bring out your wings?”

He blinks once at you and opens his mouth as if to reply. But he shuts it without a word and his wings are there, filling the room, stretching wide once before he folds them in close to his back.

You can’t help yourself; you step up to him, setting one hand on his hip, over the fabric of his trousers, and reaching out to his wing with the other. You manage to stop yourself before you touch it and ask, “May I?”

Crowley’s voice sounds a little strangled when he says, “Yeah, why not.”

You sink your fingers carefully into his wing. You move slowly, working your way deeper, until you’ve found the base of his feathers. You shiver at the same time he does, and watch the shift of silky black feathers against your skin..

After a moment, you force yourself to pull away. Crowley lifts his eyebrows as you step back, and asks, “What, not good?”

“Not at all.” You smile at him. “Why don’t you go lie down?”

He doesn’t hesitate and backs to the bed without looking away from you, sitting himself down on the side. His wings flick and resettle over and over, little movements that betray as much as his watchful stillness. You could stay and watch him like this for some time, but you’re too impatient to linger for long just now. 

“Lying down, if you don’t mind,” you tell him. 

He smiles crookedly, and kicks his shoes off before he swings his legs up onto the bed and lies flat on his back, his wings spread out wide to either side. You step up to the side of the bed and run one hand from the base of his neck down his chest, almost to the waistband of his trousers. His eyes track your hand as it moves, and you can see the tension in every line of his body. You press your hand flat against his stomach, and he shudders, his eyes fluttering closed.

You leave your hand there, feeling the rise and fall with every breath he takes, until the prickling becomes difficult to withstand. And then— you switch hands, placing your other hand on the same place, right against his stomach. He twitches minutely before stilling himself. His eyes are still closed, but now his eyebrows are drawn together, and you can hear his breathing coming louder. You keep your hand in place until you feel him make a quiet noise and try to shift away from you, and then pull back.

Instead of touching him again, you rest your hands on the bed, and wait for him to look at you. When his eyes open and he turns to you, you gesture towards the bed and say, “May I?”

“Yeah—  _ yeah.”  _ His voice is a little hoarse, but there’s no hesitation, and he reaches for your arm to pull you in. 

You don’t really want to pull away from him just now, so you miracle away your shoes rather than removing them through more conventional means, and climb onto the bed beside him. You’re somewhat distracted taking the image in, Crowley spread out like this, so open and unguarded. He’s like a work of art, or a feast, and without consciously deciding to do so, you find yourself kneeling across his thighs, looking down at him laid out before you. Crowley himself doesn’t seem to have any problem with this; his hands are gripping your waist tightly, and he can’t seem to look away from you.

As gently as possible, you disengage his hands and press them down into the blankets. “Can you leave these here?”

He blinks once, uncomprehending.

You try again. “Leave your hands there. I won’t do this if I’m going to accidentally hurt you, so I want complete control.”

Crowley flushes at that, but lets his hands rest against the blankets and doesn’t move them even after you release your grip.

Now— It’s hard to know where to begin. You’d like to savor  _ all _ of him. But you have to begin somewhere and it’s so difficult to make that choice yourself. So you ask Crowley, “What would you like?”

You watch as he shuts his eyes tight and shivers. He doesn’t speak up, so you brush your fingers across his stomach, just above the edge of his waistband, and say, “I need you to tell me what you want.”

Finally, he says, “Wings. If you— Like before.”

It isn’t really a full thought, but it’s enough to go on, so you take mercy on him. You bend forward over him, letting your fingers sink down into the feathers of his wings, until you’ve reached the base of them, where the shafts meet skin. You move slowly and deliberately, careful not to do any damage, but just let your fingers rest against Crowley and feel the tingling slowly, slowly start to mount.

You don’t let it build too far before you pull away, moving through the feathers, taking your time before you let your fingers settle against him and feel the sensation build from nothing again. You move in towards the base of his wings, inch by inch, until you reach his arms, and then let your hands rest against his arms, sliding up over his shoulders and down his chest, pushing your way upright again. 

Crowley’s breath is coming fast and his eyes are wide as he watches you, so you don’t strictly need to ask him anything, but you can’t help yourself. “Like that?”

He laughs breathlessly. “Sure, that— Yeah. Like that.”

You know he can see it, but you still smile, completely content with your situation. “And now?”

That makes him laugh again, louder. He brings up one hand for a moment to cover his face before letting it fall back to the blanket again. “I thought you were supposed to be the nice one.”

“I am  _ extremely _ nice. You’ll notice how I’m making an effort to give you exactly what you want.”

He doesn’t believe a word of that, and you can’t stop smiling at the way he grins and shakes his head. But you also wait patiently without touching him, until finally he shuts his eyes, swallows hard, and says, “Kiss me?”

You do. You bend low over him as he stretches up to meet you. You brace one hand against the bed, but let the other rest in the center of his chest. You kiss him slowly, deeply, but without forgetting to pay attention to the feeling in your hand where it touches him. You savor the kiss for as long as you can, letting your hand rest in that one place. 

You have to break the kiss before you move your hand, but then when you sit up, you switch hands. You hear a sharp intake of breath from him and he watches you without saying a word. You let your hand slip to the side, over his ribs, and say, “How does that feel?”

“I think you can tell how it feels, Angel.”

“No.” You put your hand back in the middle of his chest, just for a moment, but he twitches underneath you and his head snaps back. Then you trail your fingers off to the side again. “I told you to talk to me.”

It takes him a moment. “It’s— good. Intense. You pull away when I react. Wish you’d push me harder.”

“Mm.” Your fingertips are beginning to burn, so you pull that hand away and let your other hand rest against his waist. “I suppose I might wait for longer before giving you a break. But really, when you won’t talk to me, I’m only able to work with what I see.”

Crowley blinks, then grins. “You make very roundabout threats, did you know that?”

“Do I?” 

You keep your hand where it is on Crowley’s waist, feeling the tingling sensation grow in your palm. You wait as long as you can before switching it with your other hand. Crowley’s grin flickers for a moment, and his eyes unfocus.

You can forgive him for not speaking up when you  _ are _ making every effort to distract him, so you prompt, “Well?”

“Don’t stop,” he manages. “I can—” He loses track of that sentence, breathing quickly and shallowly. His eyes squeeze tight shut, and he says, “Not yet—” 

He doesn’t finish that thought, so you give it another few seconds before you pull away. He gasps at the loss of contact, but before he can settle himself, you’re already reaching up further, just using one finger to trace a circle over one side of his chest. “Yes?”

_ “Yes,”  _ he manages. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

That is sweet of him. You linger there, switching from one finger to another when the sensation gets to be too much. You— don’t know, but you think, by looking at Crowley and the way he reacts, that the feeling builds more slowly for him, mounting over a more dispersed area. You wish you could  _ know  _ what is happening _ ,  _ but the uncertainty feels like more of a challenge than a hazard now. 

You prompt him, “Tell me what it’s like.”

“It’s— Keep going, I can feel it, but—” He makes a frustrated noise and shifts underneath you, pushing up into your touch. “Not  _ enough.” _

That is intriguing. And by way of reward, you place your other hand on his arm, your fingertips resting against the inside of his elbow. You keep tracing out that circle on his chest, but when your other hand starts to grow uncomfortable, you move it, pressing the back to his upper arm.

Without needing you to ask him, Crowley says, “Still isn’t too much. It’s— So good. Angel, I want to touch you.”

“No.” You stretch out over him to reach up and cup his face. You brush your thumb over his cheek and he turns his face into your hand. His eyes are still tight shut, and you can feel his breath against your palm.

You stay there for as long as you can, reluctant to pull away. But it has to happen eventually. As you sit up, you can see his wings curl in towards you, until they brush against your sides. 

“Crowley,” you say. “Keep your wings down for me.”

He doesn’t manage words, but you see his jaw clench, and his wings settle back onto the bed until they rest flat, faintly shivering. His hands are clenched tight in the blankets, and he’s trying so very hard for you, so you reach out over him against, and bury your fingers in his feathers.

“You said to push you,” you say.

“Please. Angel,  _ please—”  _

You take your time now, more than before. Your fingers are going numb, but you leave them resting against him until you feel his wings twitch and shake underneath you, wait to pull back until you near Crowley make little wordless noises that aren’t quite pain. You work your way through his wings until you reach his arms again, then finally pull your hands back one last time and brace on his arms to sit up.

Crowley’s breathing is ragged and uneven, and his hands come up from the blankets to clutch at your trouser legs. “Don’t stop,” he begs.  _ “Angel—”  _

“I have you,” you tell him.

Your fingers are still burning, but you place your hand flat on his stomach, not quite stationary, but a slow, deliberate motion, side to side. Crowley lets go of your trousers with one hand and throws that arm over his face, but his other hand holds tightly to you. You switch to the back of your hand when that gets to be too much, then switch hands entirely when you reach the limits of what you can endure. 

When Crowley lets go of you entirely and starts to struggle upright, you think for one horrible moment that you’ve misjudged the situation, and that you’ve hurt him after all. But he only reaches out to you, imploring, and says, “Angel.  _ Aziraphale.” _

You take him into your arms easily, and you let him kiss you, rough and desperate. He clings to you, his arms locked tight around you and his fingers digging into your back. You hold him against you as well, and it’s almost an accident when your hands brush against the base of his wings. He shudders all over and gasps against your mouth, so you repeat the motion, more deliberately. 

You keep your hands at his wings, tracing out the joints with your thumbs, kissing him as he holds on to you. You aren’t certain how long you’ll be able to kiss him, worried that you won’t be able to kiss him as long as he needs, and determined that you’ll kiss him as long as you’re physically able. The tension in him builds and builds and you feel like you ought to worry but you can’t stop kissing him or touching him and are  _ completely  _ unwilling to push him away, and then— 

The tension snaps, all at once, and you feel a wave of demonic energy wash through you. It’s— unexpected and intense, but not wholly unpleasant. It isn’t unlike the sensation you feel after the two of you have been touching, but flooding over and  _ in  _ you, all at once, without the slow build of contact. 

And belatedly, you realize that Crowley has broken the kiss and is shifting to slump against your shoulder, gasping for air and shivering from head to toe. Your first instinct is to hold him close and be sure that he’s well, but then you remember—  _ everything  _ about the nature of this encounter, and remember your bare hands on his wings, and instead try to ease him gently onto the bed, as quickly as you can. You lay him out flat and hover for a moment, uncertain, before you collect yourself to remember you can just miracle yourself a pair of gloves and reach down to touch him again.

The moment you touch his face with a gloved hand, his eyes drift open and he looks up at you, flushed and dazed. You’re still worried until he blinks and grins and reaches up to touch the side of your face, and all the anxiety knotted up in your chest untangles itself and fades away. Now, you can let yourself properly savor the moment, enjoy the way Crowley is laid out beneath you, the way he’s  _ looking  _ at you. You could stay like this for hours, just luxuriating in this aftermath.

When Crowley draws you down into a slow kiss, you let him do so. You break apart when your lips begin to prickle, but even then, you only draw back far enough that you can see him properly and continue to drink in the scene.

He’s the first one to break the silence. “You’re  _ sure _ I can’t return the favor.”

You take your time answering. “Why, Crowley, that sounds like you think that I’m finished.”

That makes him flush all over again. “Really? What happened to ‘hardly know what we’re doing’?”

“That seems like an excellent reason to continue, don’t you think? I’m sure there are a great many things I still don’t know, and it would be terribly irresponsible to leave so much unexplored.”

All he can do is laugh helplessly. “And you don’t want to try it yourself.”

“I didn’t say  _ that _ , did I?” You rest a hand against his chest. It isn’t the same as feeling the contact of skin against skin, but it is nice to know you won’t need to move your hand, that you can do this for as long as you please. “I’m not averse. But I really must insist on taking care of some other things first.”

“‘Taking care of other things.’ Is that what they’re calling it these days?” He rests one hand on each of your legs, looking up at you. “And how long do you expect your ‘other things’ to take?”

“Why, do you have somewhere to be?”

He swallows hard and looks away. “Suppose not. Not if you need me.”

You smile and reach down to touch his cheek, gently turning him back to face you. “Well, my dear, as long as that’s the case, I do believe that you and I will have all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/186322527721/on-such-a-breathless-night-as-this-spockandawe)/[Twitter](https://twitter.com/spockandawe/status/1151008745201295361)


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